Inner Conversations
by TheToxicInterest
Summary: "You're the one having a conversation with a voice in your head! Face it, Mike: if I'm crazy, then so are you." Mike wakes up having to deal with the consequences of Mal's actions... Again. [One-Shot].


**When I first wrote this a few days ago, it was only three hundred words of nothing but disembodied dialogue. I have no clue how it took on a life of its own, but I'm kind of glad it did.**

**Takes place a few years before Revenge of the Island.**

**Warning: Some blood and mentions of self-harm.**

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><p>"But I didn't do anything!" I insist aloud.<p>

_It was __your__ hands that held the razor. __Your__ arms are bleeding. That's __your__ blood spilling out, no matter how little it is. If only you hadn't woken up…_

"But you were the one who did it, not me!" Thankfully, my family is out right now. The last thing I need is for one of them to hear me talking to myself again. "I was sleeping!"

_That doesn't matter,_ Mal continues as I search through the bathroom's cabinets and drawers, trying to ignore how much my cuts are stinging._ It never matters. When people see these marks, they'll think that you're the one who did it._

I still remember when my dad first saw cuts on my arm... The horror in his eyes... He didn't mention it, probably not knowing what to say, but I still felt awkward and uncomfortable and _guilty_ watching him stare at his feet in silence. Like I had done something unforgivable, even though I didn't remember how the cuts got there in the first place. And if my therapist sees them...

I groan from the thought. No way in hell do I need _another_ awkward topic to bring up in her office. I can't even get her to believe these "voices" are more than just voices—how can I convince her that I don't remember cutting myself? That it might not have even been me doing it?

"I could just say I have a cat," I suggest out loud. "Or that I tripped in the woods or something."

_Ah, the stock excuses for self-harm. Isn't it great how none of them are really convincing? My personal favorite is "I cut myself shaving"__._

"It wasn't self-harm. At least... I don't think so." But I see his smug smile within my mind's eye. I knock the side of my head with an open palm out of frustration, still sifting through the cluttered cabinets. "This seriously hurts, and I'm not in the mood to listen to you. Where are the band-aids anyway?"

_Of course it hurts, you weakling, that's the point._ I can see a pair of black eyes rolling.

"But why would you hurt yourself? I've never gotten that. How can this make you feel better about anything?"

_The word 'you' is so funny,_ he contemplates, ignoring my question as per usual._ You know in languages like Spanish and French, it has a plural? In English, though, people have to use 'you' no matter how many people they're referring to. It's a bit sad. Almost offensive. If I were one of those stupid easily-insulted people who want everything as P.C. as possible, I'd rally for a plural form of the word 'you'._

"You totally just avoided the question, Mal. Why did you cut my arms in the first place? Were you mad at me or just messing with me?"

_So now they're __your__ arms? A second ago you were asking why I cut __myself__, but now it's not me?_

Before I can respond, he starts off again: _Why must everything be about you?_ _Maybe the cuts have nothing to do with you. Ever think of that?_ Though I can't feel it, the mirror across from me tells me that I'm glaring. (It's more like Mal is glaring at me, really. My face will occasionally take on weird expressions when I have "conversations" like this.) Feeling far more discomfort at his words than I should, I decide to change the subject back to the more obvious problem. "Where are the bandages?"

_Maybe I hid them, maybe we're out. Either way, it's fine. The cuts will heal themselves like they always do._

"_Always?_ How often do you cut me?! Uh, I mean cut yourself? Err, whatever..."

_Just shut up and go to sleep so I can admire my handiwork._

I refrain from slamming the medicine cabinet shut, trying not to grimace at how he just called bloody cuts his "handiwork".

"You're a sick guy, Mal." I start walking towards my bedroom, glad that the sting of my cuts is finally fading a bit. "You really, truly are."

His voice takes on a more taunting tone: _But I'm you. Doesn't that mean you're the one who's sick? You're the one having a conversation with a voice in your head! Face it, Mike: if I'm crazy, then so are you__._

That makes me stop walking for a moment. I begin to wonder if he could be right… But I decide not to respond, like my therapist has been advising, clearing my throat and entering my bedroom slowly. It doesn't hit me until then just how tired I am. I look at the walls, the posters, focusing on anything but that _voice_— he just makes himself louder to compensate.

_But, oh, how you want to be normal! I know that's your greatest dream, Mike. You want to be normal so badly... To be like the "regular kids" who don't have to wake up wondering what year it is or where they are or why they have three phone numbers scrawled on the back of their hands like a cheap escort._

"Please stop talking." I get in bed and cover my ears with pillows on instinct, knowing it won't work.

_I don't know why you'd want to be "normal", though,_ Mal continues._ Let's face it, that's just a word for people who have no creativity, no lives, and no originality. Is that what you want to be, Mike? Nothing? Because without us__,__ that's exactly what you'd be… A miserable, traumatized little _nothing.

"Leave me alone!" I hiss, hitting my head again without regard for the blood spilling into my hair. "Stop talking! Stop it! I just wanna sleep..."

_That's all I want right now, too— for you to sleep. Just sleep and let me wander..._

"Fine, whatever. Just don't cut anything anymore and stop trying to get in my head," I whimper, burying my face in my pillow and shutting my eyes.

_I'll always be in your head, Mike. Not much either of us can do about that._

I say with a sigh, "You know what I mean. I'll go back to sleep and you can do whatever you want, as long as you leave me alone."

More quickly than I anticipate, I fall back into the comfort of sleep. The last image in my head is of Mal— head tilted slightly with a crooked smirk on his face, his eyes as black and dead as a shark's.

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><p><strong>If there's enough interest, I'll continue this as a collection of one-shots. There won't be any arc or definite continuity, just a collection of one-shots focusing on Mike and his personalities.<strong>

**Please leave a review so I know what you think! Favorites are appreciated, but reviews are loved even more.**


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